"Thou hast well spoken, Lawrence--'afore God had it ready.' Hast thou

read certain words of Saint Stephen the martyr touching Moyses, that

great Prophet of God? 'He guessed that his brethren should understand

that God should give to them health by the hand of him: but they

understood not.' How should they? Nor was it they that were lacking.

It was Moyses that understood not--understood not that the day of

deliverance was not come by forty years--that forty years' keeping of

sheep in Midian must needs be first. Yet God did mean to deliver them

by his hand; it was not undone, only latered.[#] He did so when the

right time came--when He was ready, and when Moyses was ready, and when

Israel was ready."

[#] Deferred.

"It seemeth me," answered Lawrence, sighing, "that man lacketh much

training at our Lord's hand, ere he be fit for a deliverer."

"More than any can rightly judge, out-taken our Lord. The fellowship of

Christ's work may well include the fellowship of Christ's sufferings.

Mark thou, a stone-breaker needs no training; a goldsmith must have

much. The finer the tool shall be, the sharper must be the grinding of

it. What is behind thy thoughts, Lawrence?"

"Methinks, Father, you wit my Lord's earnest desire to be he that should

peace Ireland with England?--and you know how foot-hot he flingeth

himself, soul and body, into all that cometh to his hand for to be

done?"

"I know," said Mr. Robesart, with a smile in which amusement and pity

had equal shares.

"I was marvelling if he were ready," said Lawrence in the same low

voice. "I am something feared lest he may run ere he be sent."

"Men of his disposition are prone to make that blunder."

"That would not bring success."

"Not the brass counter of it, in very sooth: yet it might be a step on

the way to the gold. It were more like to bring a lesson to himself

than success to his plan. Yet even there, Lawrence, that is at times

the truest success which hath most the look of failure. It did not look

like success when the cross was reared on the hill of Calvary. Yet that

night he was destroyed that had the power of death, and the gates of the

kingdom of Heaven were flung open to all believers."

Lawrence did not answer for a moment. Then he said, in a lower tone

than ever,--"There be that seem as though they could not learn from the

past."

"Let us have a care we be not of them. And for others let us pray."

"It is hard," was the reply with an unsteady voice, "to see a life flung

away and lost, for the which you would give your own and count it

nothing worth."

"That is not lost," was Mr. Robesart's answer, "which is given to God

and our neighbour. The only lost lives are those that be cast away upon

Satan and ourselves. He will not lose his life: another may."

Lawrence had no need to inquire if Mr. Robesart were thinking of the

Countess.

"And if it were as thou shouldst seem to fear," resumed the priest, "if

our young Lord should fling away all, even to earthly life, upon this

earnest burning desire that hath possessed him,--who are we to say him

nay? This may be God's work for him. It were a good work, surely, if it

could be done."

"It were a good work to dry up a quicksand," answered Lawrence,

significantly: "yet if a man flung therein all the gold of his having,

it should be cast away, and the quicksand be no drier. Father, it seems

to me a work that cannot be done, or that, if it were done, should cost

a thousand lives as fair as his, and take maybe a thousand years to do

it."

"Lawrence Madison," said Mr. Robesart, gravely, "thou and I had better

let the Lord's purposes alone, for the chances be an hundred to one that

we shall do them mischief. It were unwisdom to stay the wheels of the

world lest they should crush a fly."

Lawrence gave a gesture of impatience, almost involuntary.

"My son," continued the priest, laying his hand on Lawrence's shoulder,

"childre be apt to make wrong reckonings. Remember, He that driveth the

charette is the Father of us all. He will not crush, nor 'noy one of

his childre without good cause. And mind thou, that meaneth good cause

for him, no less than for the general matter. If the Master of the

garden will pluck one of His flowers in the bud, which of His

weeding-lads shall say Him nay? And if our Father see it well to call

His child to Him, somewhat sooner than the other childre would fain part

with him, is it ill for the child thus called, or is it well?"

"By how rough a road!"

"It will not matter when he hath reached Home. Yet is it so? Dost thou

know which road should be the rougher--the short, sharp climb up the

steep rock, or the weary winding around it? I would scarce presume to

say. Forty years in the wilderness be apt to tire a man sorely. Let it

rest, Lawrence; it is better. Only pray for him. He will give his life

for somewhat, either by the sharp climb or the weary desert way. Pray

that he may give it for what God means it. We shall meet and rest at

Home."

"God grant it be so!"

"And one other thing, Lawrence, I will say unto thee, of the which I

think thou hast need. Be not too careful to spare pain to them thou

lovest. It is not the best kind of love. And too often--I would but

caution thee, my son, to keep out of the wiles of Satan--what it truly

signifieth is that we would fain spare ourselves the pain of seeing it.

Methinks thy danger should be on that side, wherefore have a care. God

loves us better than that. Aye, and He only knows our hearts, as He

only knows those good works which He hath prepared for us to walk in.

'It sufficeth to each day his own evil.' Pray as much as ever thou

wilt; only beware of giving commands to God. And when thou hast prayed,

and canst do nothing, then is the time to stand still and see His

salvation. Remember, for him that is God's child, nothing is verily ill

that God doth to him."

"Nay, but if it break his heart?"

"Hearts take more breaking than men think," said Mr. Robesart, quietly.

"And He healeth 'all that have need of healing.' By times, when we

think we lack the plaster, we do in very deed want the probe."

Lawrence looked up suddenly, with pained eyes.

"The probe gives the most pain when a man shall struggle against it.

'Thy will, not mine,' is the most wholesome medicine for all our ills,

my son."

"It is a bitter one," said Lawrence, his lip slightly trembling.

"Aye, whiles we be swallowing of it. But if thou wouldst make thy

physic specially bitter, the way is to look thereon a while aforehand,

and feed thy fantasy with the bitterness thereof, and swallow the same

grudgingly at last."

Lawrence smiled.

"Aye me!" said Mr. Robesart, sadly. "For every time that we say to God

with our lips, '_Fiat voluntas tua_' how many times do we say to Him

with our hearts, '_Fiat voluntas mea!_' Nay, at times we pass a step

further yet, and say, 'Do Thou my will!' May God save thee and me from

that rank treason against our heavenly King! We be all likely to fall

therein. And yet His will is for our best welfare--our sanctification

here, our bliss hereafter; and our will is but for present ease and

passing pleasure. Lord, teach us to do Thy will!"

The same evening, a horn sounded without the gate, and the Earl of

Ormonde was announced in the hall of Trim Castle. Roger, who was

playing chess with one of his knights, rose to meet his kinsman, a man

ten years older than himself.

"Fair fall your Lordship in your light battle to-night!" said Ormonde,

with a rather grim smile and a glance at the chess-board. "If you be of

my mind, we shall find somewhat heavier work to-morrow."

"Truly, what mean you, fair Cousin?"

"The O'Brien is up, my Lord: and that means work for me--and for you, if

you will have with me."

"Have with you? Aye, with all my heart!" returned the Viceroy, with a

flash in his eyes. "The O'Brien! ungrateful traitor! was it for this

the King knighted him in Dublin Cathedral? Howbeit, you and I shall

soon bring him to book, and without tumult, I would fain hope."

"Your Pandora hath her coffer a good size," answered Ormonde, with the

same grim smile.

"You think my hopes be over-great, trow?"

"A dram or so bigger than mine."

"I will never fight mine own kin, if I may away therewith," said Roger,

cheerfully. "Let me but parley with the Irishry myself, and you shall

behold somewhat come thereof."

"Truly, of that doubt I nothing," said Ormonde in the same tone. "But

whether that which comes thereof shall be to your gracious Lordship's

ease--well, I was not bred up for a prophet."

"Whither march we?"

"Down the Boyne and up the Blackwater. The sept are gathered at

Kenles."[#]

[#] Now called Kells.

"How much is your following?"

"All the Botelers, and a good parcel more of the English pale. We are

well enough for that."

"I will march to meet them with the dawn," said the Viceroy. "Madison,

order all things in good readiness for early morrow. Maybe I shall find

my work there."

It was said in a cheerful, almost exultant voice; and Roger quitted the

hall, leaving Lawrence very, very sad.

"Maybe he shall find his death there!" he said in a low mournful voice

to Mr. Robesart.

"Be it so, my son," answered the priest, though his own tones were not

without sorrow. "Let him only find God's work; and then he shall find

also God's hire unto His servants. He gives not grudgingly, Lawrence

Madison."

The armies met at Kenles, on the 20th of July 1398. When they were yet

at a short distance, the Earl of March suddenly sprang from his horse,

and bade Lawrence dismount also.

"Quick, and aid me!" said he, in his usual impulsive manner. "I will

don the Irish habit, and meet them thus arrayed. They will list me if I

come to them in their own habit, and speaking their own tongue. Is not

the blood of their ancient kings mine own? Lolly"--the old childish

epithet came back to his lips in this moment of haste and

excitement--"wherefore standest gazing thus moonstruck? Make haste and

help me."

"My Lord, I am sore afeared lest they hurt you."

"They hurt me! Am I not one of them by blood? Have I not learned to be

one of them in language? Let me but don their habit, and I am of them in

all things. Quick! Cast thy fears and fantasies to the winds! This is

no time for them."

While Roger spoke, he was hastily throwing aside his English dress, and

arraying himself in the Irish national costume--the tunic and braccae

which dated from Roman days, the loose hood, the plaid, the bare foot in

the stirrup, and the spear in the hand. Thus accoutred, and commanding

his men to stand still until after the parley, he dashed up the slope to

meet the Irish leaders.

For an instant Roger's handsome face and lithe figure were seen at the

summit of the knoll, as he cried in Irish to the advancing host.

"God speed you, my brethren! What are your demands?"

There was a moment's pause for consultation among the Irish leaders.

Then two appeared to separate from the rest, and to come forth towards

Roger.

At that moment came the sharp whirr of an arrow whizzing past, a wild

passionate cry, a sudden rush forward, and the next instant a prostrate

figure lay on the ground at the top of the slope, and over it stood

Lawrence Madison, sword in hand, guarding it alike from friend and foe.

Then a sudden word of command from the Irish chieftain, and down the

side of the slope charged the sept of the O'Briens, completely

overwhelming the English forces.

Let us draw a veil over the next scene. The customs of the Irish septs

in war were very terrible. The enemy who fell into their hands alive

could rarely expect mercy: while he who met their vengeance dead was

sure of a form of wild revenge which makes the reader shudder.

Six hours later, the returned relics of the English army were reviewed,

and the roll called, in the courtyard of Trim Castle. Ten disabled

archers were answered for by others: so were twenty-seven wounded or

captured spearmen. So men spoke up for Lawrence Madison, rescued alive

almost by miracle, but brought home sorely wounded and insensible, and

delivered into the tender care of Guenllian, to be nursed back to life

if that might be.

But there was one name which won no answer of any kind, except the bare

bowed heads which greeted its sound, and let it pass by them in solemn

silence. And that was Roger Mortimer, Earl of Ulster and March, and Lord

Lieutenant of Ireland.

The drawbridge was in place at Trim Castle; the portcullis was lifted,

and the gates stood open. In the hall was a great catafalque of black

and silver, where lighted tapers burned at the head and foot of the

bier. And into that hall, now open to every comer, came men of all

kinds and classes, and of both rival nationalities--soldiers in uniform,

and squires of the neighbourhood, of the English pale, and bare-footed

Irish peasantry wrapped in their tartan cloaks, to gaze upon that still

white face which lay so calm and quiet now. The words which could be

heard whispered were not all alike. Some of the squires and the

soldiers said angrily, "He was too much for the Irish"--"He was no true

Englishman." Others hushed them, with, "Nay, he was England's heir,"

or, "He meant well, poor young gentleman!" But at last came one old man

wrapped in the national tartan, and bearing a harp upon his back, who

sat down, and played upon the instrument a wild, weird, sweet keen, in

the softest notes it would produce. And then, rising, he bound his harp

again upon his shoulders, and went up to the black-robed priest who

stood holding the sprinkler with the holy water, which each one who

pleased it took and sprinkled the corpse. The old man took it from his

hand, and softly scattered the fresh drops on the calm figure lying

there. While he did so he spoke in Irish.

"Sweet be thy sleep, son of the Kings of Erin! Light lie the earth upon

thy fair young face! May He that reigneth in the heavens count thee

among the white-winged, and the dark spirits of evil flee away from thy

path to glory! Sleep, son of Una the daughter of Cahil! The winds,

whistling in thy soft hair, shall not awaken thee. Depart on thy wings,

O blast of the north! for thou shalt not disturb his rest. Long is the

night that cometh, but his eyes are heavy. Draw over him the curtain of

peace, and let peace be his coverlet."

As his murmured words ended he caught the eyes of the priest.

"I was only blessing him, Father!" said the old man quietly. "Didst

thou think the words in my lips were reproaches or curses? A bard of

Roscommon curse the son of Cahil! We could not do it, Father. And he

loved us, and died for us. They will not leave us his dust, methinks.

We would enshrine it at Tara where holy Patrick preached, or on the Rock

of Cashel with the dust of his royal fathers. Ah, it is not likely.

They do not trust us. And maybe, at times, we have not deserved the

trust. But we would not have hurt _him_."

"Yet you killed him!" said Mr. Robesart in a choked voice.

"_We?_" was the significant answer, in a pathetic tone. "God be Judge

between us. You will know one day,--not, perchance, till the great doom

shall be. Father!"--the old man, who had moved a little away, suddenly

stopped, and fixed his eyes on Mr. Robesart. "There will be some wrong

things to be set right, when that shall be."

"There will," was the answer in the same tone.

"Aye," pursued the aged bard, dreamily. "Some false things to be made

true, and crooked things to be made straight, and justice to be done by

the great Judge that day. It will be a long day, that--the longest

earth shall know. It may well take a thousand years." He turned to the

corpse. "Sleep till the morning come, golden-haired love of Erin! We

shall all be there, every one, the accuser and the accused, the

oppressor and the oppressed, the murderer and the slain. There will be

some of us who would be glad to change. Peace be on thee, and God

forgive us all!"

And the old bard, with the harp bound upon his back, went slowly out of

the hall: and Mr. Robesart, looking after him, murmured, "_Pax tecum!_"

In the upper chambers of Trim Castle, the scenes were nearly as sad as

in the hall beneath. In the private rooms of the ladies' tower, the

dead father's darling had wept herself to sleep, when exhausted nature

could bear no more grief for the moment: and in an upper chamber of the

adjoining tower, Lawrence Madison lay in fever and delirium. Between

the two Guenllian came and went, with light steps and heavy heart: and

Beatrice sat by the velvet bed, watching for the child to wake, and

longing to comfort her.

There were two reasons why Guenllian kept Beatrice out of the sick

chamber, but neither of them was the one which would occur to a modern

nurse. Our fathers, at that time, had little fear of contagion, for

they scarcely realised its existence: when an infectious disease broke

out, they immediately thought the wells had been poisoned--which perhaps

they had, though not by deliberate malice, as was then imagined. One of

Guenllian's motives was a desire to keep the young girl from hearing

poor Lawrence's perpetual repetition of the dreadful scene just enacted

at Kenles--that was one of the two topics on which his fevered thoughts

ran endlessly: and the other--motive and topic alike--was that Lawrence

in his delirium had told Guenllian a secret, which she wanted time to

consider whether it would be well to share with Beatrice. Guenllian had

entertained some suspicion of the truth already, but she knew now with

certainty that Lawrence loved Beatrice, and that he felt certain she did

not love him. On the latter point Guenllian was entirely ignorant, for

if Beatrice had any secret feelings of this kind, she confided them to

no one. The former was inclined to think that any partiality which

Beatrice might feel for Lawrence was only the sisterly kindness which

had always existed between them, and if that were so, she was very sorry

for Lawrence. Guenllian knew him well enough to be aware that his love,

once given, would be given for ever, and that there could be no second

time for him. But it was only now and then that Beatrice's name came

into the passionate flood of words which were poured forth from the

unguarded lips of the sufferer. Nearly all night through he was at

Kenles, going over, over, over that awful scene, but--Guenllian

noticed--never coming quite to the end. When he reached the most

terrible point--just before the death of his master--he always gave a

sob and a low cry as if in pain, and turned back again to the beginning.

This peculiarity, however, had not struck her as any thing remarkable,

until the second day, when in giving a minute account of the patient,

she mentioned it among other items to the physician.

"Aye so?" asked Mr. Robesart significantly. "Methinks, Mistress

Guenllian, that hath a meaning. I would fain be here the next time that

it happeth."

"That may you with little trouble, good Father, since I count it happeth

every hour at the furthest."

Mr. Robesart sat down and waited. He had no need to wait long. Before

the hour was over, poor Lawrence was once more pouring out his fervid

and dreadful tale, as though he were relating it to a listener, broken

constantly by disjointed words, yet ever coming back to the one subject.

"Then he rade to the top of the mount--primroses grow there--no, not

primroses--what call you them?--he rade up, in his Irish

habit--habit--Mistress Wenteline, can you amend this rent in mine habit?

The Irish have torn it--he called to them in the Irish tongue--nay, I

cannot tell you; I wis not the Irish--they be wild folk. They talk

alway; they talked then. And two of them came riding forward at

after--Master Byterre, look to your saddle-girth; methinks there is

somewhat awry--my Lord bent to his saddle-bow when he answered them.

Then one of them laid his spear in rest--rest! Oh for rest! Mine head

burneth--'I will give you rest'--aye, only He can give it--but methought

the man were not hostile, he seemed as though he held forth his hand--O

wala, wala wa! Help, my God!"

And with this cry, not sharply and loudly delivered, but in a low voice

of intense anguish, poor Lawrence sank back upon his pillow, and a cold

perspiration broke out over his face.

"Lo' you, right this doth he alway!" whispered Guenllian.

Mr. Robesart shook his head. He laid his soft, cool, quieting hand upon

the patient's brow.

"My son Lawrence, dost thou hear me?"

A lucid interval seemed to occur, for Lawrence looked up into his old

friend's face, with calm weak eyes.

"I see thou dost. What came then to pass? Try to tell me."

"When, Father?" answered the faint voice. He had evidently no

recollection of what had just happened.

"When the Irish leader came up to thy Lord with his spear in rest, and

held forth his hand, or seemed as though he should do it."

A look of unutterable pain came into the sick man's eyes, and his tongue

appeared to refuse its office.

"Tell me, my son," urged Mr. Robesart with gentle firmness. "Was it

then the Irish shot him?"

Lawrence tried to lift himself, and looked round uneasily. Mr. Robesart

helped him into a more elevated position, and with a look to Guenllian

sent her behind the curtain.

"Under _benedicite_, if I must!" whispered the patient.

"Be it so," answered the priest, and signed to Guenllian to quit the

chamber. "Now, my son, here be no ears save mine--and His that knoweth

all things. Speak on."

"Father!" continued the low but fervent tone, "the Irish never shot him.

That shot came _from our own side_."

"Never!" broke from the amazed priest. "Lawrence, my son, calm thee!

Thou art speaking----"

"I am speaking the heavy truth," answered the sufferer. "Nay Father, I

am in good wit now, whatso I may have been. I tell you again, the Irish

did it not. It was his own men that slew him."

"Christ pardon him that did it!"

"I will say Amen so soon as I can," answered Lawrence Madison with a

sob. "That is not yet."

The priest did not reprove him. Perhaps he was too shocked to say

anything: or perhaps he felt that in a case like this, nature must have

its way at first, and even grace could hardly overcome it in the opening

bitterness of love's agony.

Guenllian had felt much afraid of Mr. Robesart's making Lawrence thus

speak out the point which in his delirium he seemed unable to utter,

like a nervous horse refusing to pass a special object. But the event

proved the physician's judgment right. From the hour that the burden

was shared with another, the patient began to amend.

Who was it that slew Roger Mortimer, and why? God knoweth, and men never

knew. The chroniclers plainly enough assert the fact of his death; but

they content themselves with the vaguest possible hints at the further

facts--that his own men slew him, and that they did it out of jealousy

on account of what they deemed his Irish proclivities. Just enough to

make us guess it they suggest: they were evidently afraid to say more.

The old bard had spoken truly, for the dust of Roger Mortimer was not

left to repose in Ireland. Amid solemn pomp and glittering funeral

gloom, the coffin of the heir of England was borne over St. George's

Channel to his ancestral home at Wigmore. There they laid him with the

elder Mortimers, and not, like his father, with his Montacute ancestors,

at Bisham. There, by the side of the valiant and wise Edmund Mortimer

and his royally descended Margaret, who may be termed the founders of

the house, by the first Earl of darkened memory, by the young and royal

mother whom he could barely remember, sleeps Roger Mortimer, heir

presumptive of England, first and last Lollard of the House of March.

England has forgotten him long ago, her own chosen heir to whom her

faith was sworn, and from whose lips, time after time, the cup of

success seemed snatched, just as he was about to drink the sweet wine.

But should Ireland utterly forget that scion of her ancient kings, the

young, warm-hearted, gallant Prince who, prudently of imprudently, gave

his life for her, and did not achieve the end in the hope of which he

gave it?

*CHAPTER XI.*

*HOME TO USK.*

"We buried him where he was wont to pray,

By the calm lake,--even here,--at eventide;

We reared this cross in token where he lay,

For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died;

Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave,

That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave."

--FELICIA HEMANS.

If any further item of failure could have come into the life of Roger

Mortimer, it would have been conveyed by a royal letter, dated at

Westminster just one week after his death, and, being addressed to

himself, before the news of the calamity at Kenles had reached the King.

In this letter, Roger Earl of Ulster and March, Lord Lieutenant of

Ireland, is told that "as, by the advice of our Council, we have

constituted our beloved nephew Thomas Duke of Surrey our Lieutenant in

our said land from the first day of September next, for one year, we

command that you shall not hinder the said Duke from the execution of

his office, and we also exonerate you from the charge aforesaid, from

the coming of the said Duke."[#]

[#] Close Roll, 22 Ric. II., Part 1.

Roger was superseded--why, there is no information. It does not

necessarily mean, by any means, that the King was displeased with him,

or desired to revoke his policy. It may even have been at his own

desire, but there remains no evidence of this. It is more probable that

his royal cousin wished to have him nearer, and considered that the

presence of his heir presumptive would be of service to himself in that

thorny and difficult path which it had been the lot of Richard of

Bordeaux to tread from his early youth. And now all that remained of

Roger Mortimer was coming home indeed, but to another home and a longer

rest than those which his royal cousin had designed for him. His crown

was no longer a future possibility: it had come. He should never see

evil any more.

It has been left on record that King Richard's grief and indignation at

the news of Roger's death were very deep and true. It was indeed, apart

from the personal regard which he entertained for his young cousin, one

of the saddest calamities which could have happened for himself. His

heir presumptive, instead of being a man who loved and honoured him, was

now his most implacable enemy--that Henry of Bolingbroke who hated him

worse than any other. For according to the old law of England, Roger's

reign would have been an interlude, and his claim, without some further

distinct disposition of the Crown, could scarcely devolve upon his

children. Before the funeral procession set forth, there was an arrival

at Trim Castle. The Lord Bardolf arrived from England, accompanied by

his mother, the Lady Agnes Mortimer, wife of that Sir Thomas Mortimer

who had played a part in Roger's early life. He had chosen to cast in

his lot with Gloucester and the Lords Appellants, and he was now a

fugitive in hiding.[#]

[#] The Irish Government was charged to search for him in September,

1397, as he was supposed to be in that country; and he was executed in

England, before May 27th, 1399. (Close Roll, 21 Ric. II., Part 1; Patent

Roll, 23 ib.)

The Lady Agnes Mortimer, who came to conduct the little Lady Anne back

to her English friends, while her son attended to the more public

necessities of the case, was an elderly woman of girlish character. She

was by birth a Poynings, and sister-in-law of that Lollard Lady Poynings

who was the daughter of a Princess of Lancaster, and who had been

ejected from King Richard's household by the Lords Appellants. But Lady

Agnes was no Lollard, as she showed a few years later by making painful

pilgrimage to Cologne and Rome for the good of her soul. She came

forward now to meet Guenllian, answering her deliberate and modest

reverence with a shower of rapid words.

"Mistress Wenteline Bevan, is it not so? Not Bevan? 'Ap Evan'!

Gramercy, what matter? Ap Evan is Bevan, and Bevan is Ap Evan--'tis all

one. I pray you, Mistress Wenteline, carry me whither I may dry me, for

my skirts be all sore bemired this rainy day. Good lack, but it witteth

how to rain in this country, by my troth! And how doth your little

Lady, trow? Verily, poor child, she must have been moped well-nigh to

death, with all this doole about her. Young things love gleesomeness,

and should have it. Is she yet abed?"

Lady Agnes paused a second for the answer, and Guenllian managed to

glide in--"No, Madam. Truly I think the child hath too much sorrowed

for her father to take any grief at the doole."

"Ah, well, we will soon have that amended," said Lady Agnes cheerfully.

"I will have the maid away at once, and not await for aught but the bare

needful: we can amend all when we come to Usk, where my Lady her mother

now abideth."

The Countess had always expressed so much dislike to Usk that it rather

surprised Guenllian to hear that she was there. Lady Agnes answered her

look.

"Ah, my Lady loveth not doole, no more than other folk. She hath held

fair court at Usk, trust me, with a merry lot of knights and dames: and

in especial--mark you, Mistress Wenteline--_in especial_--my good Lord

Charlton of Powys. Marry, but when the news came, she _was_ aggrieved!"

Guenllian was glad to hear it. The thought had lain heavy at her heart,

that Alianora would not sorrow. Yet to think of her "holding fair

court" with gay company, while that terrible scene was enacting at

Kenles, went sorely against her.

"She might well," continued the garrulous lady. "Gramercy, but I would

have done the like in the same case! 'Twas but two days--nay, methinks,

but one--sithence all her Michaelmas gowns were home from the tailor,

new fashioned and right fair--and now but to think of putting all away

for a lot of dreary doole! Dear heart, but it were enough to aggrieve

one! If there had not been at hand my Lord Charlton to divert her

withal, methinks she should well-nigh have gone distraught! We shall

hear of a wedding there, Mistress Wenteline, by my troth, so soon as

this weary, dreary doole be but got o'er."

Guenllian's tongue required some hard discipline to keep it quiet.

Could _he_ hear it through his coffin-lid,--that still sleeper in the

hall beneath? Would he not almost stir upon his satin pillow, if this

tale reached him of the utter apathy and heartlessness of the woman to

whom he had given his heart's best love, and to whom the news of his

loss brought bitter regret--for the deferred wearing of her Michaelmas

wardrobe? Guenllian severely schooled her heart down, and then said--as

calmly as was in her warm Welsh nature--and as soon as a hiatus occurred

in Lady Agnes's persistent rattle--

"Would it like your Ladyship to tell me what manner of man is this Lord

Charlton? Shall he be one that should deal gently with the childre, or

no?"

For Guenllian's heart yearned over her darlings, and especially over

Anne.

"Eh, good lack!" laughed Lady Agnes, "he shall neither make nor mell

with them. My Lord Charlton is not he that should befool him a-laking

with childre. 'Tis the mother he loveth, not them. And in good sooth,

he is scantly the man for one of her high estate: but--there! you wit,

Mistress Wenteline, love is a leveller."

"Love?" said Guenllian inquiringly to her own heart--not to Lady Agnes.

Ay, she knew, better than her companion could tell her, of what material

Alianora was made. She was likely enough to

"Crawl to the next shrub or bramble vile,

Though from the cedar's stately arm she fell."

"And look you," pursued Lady Agnes, breaking in upon Guenllian's

sorrowful thoughts, "truly it hath been a great trouble unto my Lady,

the coming down. She looked to be one day Queen of England, and should

have been, had my sometime Lord (whom God pardon) been more wary and

witful. Do but think, to aventure himself afore his army in an Irish

habit--was it not thus he did? Any man with his wits in his head should

have wist he might as well have writ his death-warrant. And now all

that lost! Dear, dear, what a misaventure! Verily, I do think my Lady

of March sore to pity, I warrant you. To lose a crown, and spoil an

whole wardrobe, all of a blow--well, as to the losing her baron, the

world holdeth more than one man--" Lady Agnes had found it so--"but in

very deed it should sorrowfully grudge me to be in like case."

Guenllian made no answer. She only threw open the door of the Lady

Anne's apartments, and motioned to the new disposer of the child's

destiny to enter. If she thought that both the Countess and the Lady

Agnes Mortimer mistook their pearls for pebbles, and their pebbles for

pearls, she gave no hint of doing so.

The funeral procession set forth, and the lonely and sorrowful child who

had been one of his dearest treasures, followed the coffin of the dead

father. Lady Agnes Mortimer had taken Anne's future into her own hands,

and being Guenllian's nominal superior, the latter was bound to obey.

She was about to deliver the child into the yet more nominal care of the

Countess, to be plunged, when she grew a little older, into all those

pomps and vanities of this wicked world which her father had foreseen

and feared for her. So sorrowfully reckoned Guenllian ap Evan: but the

God of Roger Mortimer reckoned very differently. The lot He had

prepared for Anne was far away from pomp and vanity,--a long, eventless,

monotonous imprisonment in Windsor Castle, with her sister and

brothers,--the bitter disappointment of an attempted and almost

successful rescue, for the lot of Roger Mortimer seemed to pursue his

children--an imprisonment straiter and sadder than before, until that

one of them whom the usurper had really cause to fear, Roger's bright

little namesake, his own true son, fervent and energetic like himself,

died in his weary prison; till a greater King than Henry of Bolingbroke

undrew the bolts, and set the prisoner free. Then the other three were

allowed to come forth. The King was not afraid of Edmund,--dreamy,

indolent, ease-loving Edmund--nor of Alianora, who shared his character.

He gave to Edmund, to ensure his safe keeping, a wife of a different

type from himself, a daughter of the Romish House of Stafford, and a

grand-daughter of Gloucester. Alianora was handed over to the care of

the heir of Courtenay, ever a Lancastrian House. The most wary and

cautious men sometimes blunder. And surely it was in a moment of blunder

that that wariest and coldest-hearted of English kings and statesmen

permitted Anne Mortimer,--the heir of Duke Lionel of Clarence if her

brother should die issueless, as he did--to wed the loyal and

true-hearted Richard of Conisborough, a Prince of the Blood, in whose

eyes Richard of Bordeaux, whose godson he was, was the King, and Henry

of Bolingbroke a usurper. Richard of Conisborough was the one love of

Anne Mortimer's true heart. Every fibre of that sterling

character--silent, shy, undemonstrative, but deep and loyal to the

heart's core,--wound itself around him by whose side she dwelt in a

dream of bliss for three short years, and then God called her away from

the evil to come. He lies--murdered, or rather martyred--in the

precincts of "God's House" at Southampton, she in the Abbey Church of

King's Langley. They have met in the Garden of God. And if a text were

to be engraven on the tomb of Anne Mortimer, it might well be this,--"I

will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee."

She was the mother of all our kings. When one grand climacteric of

years had rolled round from the death of Roger Mortimer at Kenles, the

Lancastrian episode was over, and the grandson of Anne Mortimer sat upon

the throne of England. The cup of success, dashed so frequently from

Roger, came to his children's lips at last. But the one point in which

success would have been dearest to his heart has never come. Is it yet

in reserve for some descendant of his blood?--or shall the rival sister

nations only see eye to eye, when He shall come who is the Desire of all

nations--when the Lord shall bring again Zion? One event happened, of a

different character, before Lord Bardolf and Lady Mortimer set forth,

which greatly astonished every body in Trim Castle, and the person most

concerned more than any other.

Lawrence Madison was slowly creeping back to ordinary life, and was now

able to sit up most of the day, propped with pillows; and with some

difficulty, and a helping arm, to walk the length of the chamber. Lord

Bardolf had shown a particular wish to see him, and to hear the story of

the Earl's death from his lips, and had pressed Mr. Robesart to allow

the prudence of his doing so before the physician was quite ready to

admit it. The latter, however, was overruled by his superior, and Lord

Bardolf had his wish. The tale was told, at what cost to Lawrence he

best knew.

"And now," said Lord Bardolf, when he paused, exhausted, and Guenllian

held a cup of wine to his white weary lips, "methinks, Master Madison,

you have scantly yet told all. We heard of a young squire that, in the

thickest of the fight, stood o'er his Lord's body, and well-nigh gave

his own life that the foe should not touch the same. Was it thus, pray

you, or no?"

There was a moment's flash of fiery light in the weak sunken eyes.

"What looked you for?" said Lawrence Madison. "Had he loved me, and

freed me, and grown with me, child and boy and man, and set me, so far

as meetness might, as his very self, and should I reckon my poor

worthless life as aught beside his? Had a thousand lives been mine, I

would have given them for his life: and when nought but his dust was

left to give them for, they were at his service for that!"

Lord Bardolf evidently liked the spirit of the reply.

"So heard the King's grace," said he. "And it liked him to issue a

command to me, which I must obey ere I go hence. Can you rise and stand

a moment, Master Madison?"

Mr. Robesart stepped forward and lent his aid.

"Can you kneel?" said Lord Bardolf.

Lawrence, with some difficulty, contrived to do so. What was going to be

done to him he did not realise. He was simply obeying, through his

messenger, the command of his King. He was the most astonished person

in that chamber, when he felt the light touch of the accolade upon his

shoulder, and heard Lord Bardolf say authoritatively,--

"Rise up, Sir Lawrence Madison!"

"Well, verily, this passeth!" said Guenllian, an hour later, to her

subordinate Beatrice, who was busy packing the few absolute necessaries

which were to go with the little Lady Anne. "Beattie, heardest the

news? Lawrence is made a knight!"

Guenllian received no answer except a slight sound which she failed to

comprehend. She looked round, and saw that Beatrice was in tears.

"Beattie, doth aught ail thee, mine heart?"

"Oh, nothing--not--Mistress Wenteline, would you have my Lady's furred

mantle, or no?"

"Fur mantle! in August!" exclaimed Guenllian. "Why Beattie, where be thy

wits, dear maid? The gear shall all be sent after my little Lady, long

ere she lack her furred mantle."

"Oh! aye," said Beatrice confusedly. "I only thought--and I have not

yet put up her Ladyship's head-gear."

Guenllian looked after her as Beatrice hastily ran upstairs, with a soft

laugh such as had never come to her lips since the death of the Earl.

"Aye, I conceive you, Mistress Beattie!" said she. "You 'only thought'

that Sir Lawrence Madison had climbed up above Blumond's Beattie, and

was not like to reach forth an hand to help her to a seat at his side.

Well, we shall see what we shall see. But if Lolly be he that shall

forget the old friends in the hovel for the new at the castle, then is

Guenllian ap Evan no prophetess."

The packing was all done, and the preparations made for the long journey

to Wigmore Abbey. It had been arranged that the ladies should go no

further than Usk, for the Countess had intimated that her deep

despondency would not permit her to attend the funeral. Her heart was

so nearly broken that another ounce-weight of grief would complete the

catastrophe. Lady Agnes repeated the statement to Guenllian with grave

lips, but with a twinkle of fun in her eyes which sufficiently indicated

that the real character and private intentions of this disconsolate

widow were no secret to her. To Lady Agnes this was pure amusement: to

Guenllian it resulted in a mixture of contempt and sorrow. Lord Bardolf

of course, would attend the funeral, having now resigned all official

duties to the new Viceroy: and Lawrence Madison had intimated that no

power short of a royal command should keep him from it. He would follow

the friend and master whom he had loved so dearly, to the last step

where man can go with man. His new honours had rendered Lawrence his

own master, free to take service where he would, or to refrain from it

at his pleasure: and to sink into the idle attitude of a hanger on the

train of the Lady Alianora was far from Lawrence's conception either of

happiness or duty.

He had now recovered his health in all senses except that physical

strength was still lacking. Even a short walk, or a slight exertion,

fatigued him considerably. How the coming journey was to be borne he

hardly knew. But he said to himself that he would go through with it:

and in very many cases, where a man _will_ do a thing, he finds that he

can.

It was the evening before the journey, and in Lawrence's chamber he and

Mr. Robesart sat in the oriel window enjoying the quiet of the summer

evening. The preceding events had drawn very closely together these two

friends, who alone of all the male members of the household had much in

common with each other.

"Lawrence," said Mr. Robesart--he had attempted to address the new

knight by his title, and had been instantly entreated never to do so

again--"Lawrence, what think you to make of your life, now that it lieth

in your own hands to make or mar it as you will?"

"If it lay in mine hands, Father, it should surely be to mar," said

Lawrence with much feeling. "I am thankful it is in God's hands, to

whom I have given it, and He shall make thereof whatsoever He will."

"But you must needs have desires and wishes thereunto, my son."

"Aye, I have so," and a slight sigh accompanied the words. "Whether

they shall ever behold their fulfilment I think greatly to doubt."

"Think you to abide with my Lady Countess?"

"Not so, if our Lord be served[#] otherwise."

[#] If it be His will.

"Then what mean you? To enter other service, or to go to the wars, or

what so?"

"So far as mine own liking goeth, methinks, neither."

"I have alway counted you a man of peace, Lawrence," said Mr. Robesart,

with a smile which betrayed rather more amusement than was indicated by

his words.

"Aye so, to mine own pleasure," was the reply. "But they which best love

peace be not alway suffered to pursue it."

"And I had thought that, by your good-will, some quiet home far away

from strife, amid the green fields and the calm old hills, should have

been that which should have served you, my son."

"Ah, if it had been possible!" And another sigh followed the wish.

"There be times, howbeit, when man may mistake his vocation," said Mr.

Robesart in a musing tone. "I am something feared that is thus with one

friend of ours--I fear it much."

"Whom point you at?" asked Lawrence, but not in any tone of particular

interest.

"Our friend Beatrice, that hath been speaking with me of her desire to

enter the cloister."

The "Beatrice!" which answered the communication, was in a very

different tone from the last, and ended in a gasp.

"Aye so," replied Mr. Robesart, calmly, paying no apparent attention to

the tone, and bestowing all his ostensible regard upon the planet Venus,

which he was reconnoitring through an impromptu telescope made of his

right hand. "I am greatly to doubt if the maid have any true vocation,

and be not rather inclined unto the veil by some other reason thereto

provoking her. Howbeit, each knoweth best his own mind. But we were

speaking of thyself."

Mr. Robesart might try to lead the conversation back to the previous

subject, but Lawrence's interest in himself and his own future seemed

suddenly extinguished. He answered all further queries in a short,

dreamy manner which showed that his thoughts had been borne elsewhere,

and were likely to remain there. Whereby, though he was not aware of

it, he confirmed certain impressions on the priest's mind, which had

been formed into distinct convictions by a hint from Guenllian. All

that Mr. Robesart could learn from what followed was that Lawrence was

possessed of considerable savings, which he meant, on his approaching

return to Usk, to devote to the comfort of his own relatives.

"What other use have I for it?" he asked sadly, and with a faint return

of his former interest to his tone. "They are poor, and need it: and I

never needed it, nor wist what to do withal. My Lord furnished me with

food and raiment, and what other needs hath a man? I never spent penny

of my wage, save by nows and thens in a gift to some friend, and in the

writing of the holy Evangel that I bear ever about me. I shall part the

same betwixt my mother and sisters, which shall wot far better than I

how to lay it out to profit."

"'If any man hath not cure of his own, he hath denied the faith,'"

quoted Mr. Robesart. "Yet bethink thee, my son, that very charity

biddeth not that a man part with every penny of his having, nor for the

needs of his kinsfolk in the present, empoverish his own future."

"The Lord will have a care of my future. I lack but a cake and a cruse

of water, and He can send them by His angels when my need asketh them of

Him."

"Verily: a man may reasonably pack his own needs in small compass. But

dost thou mean to remain single all thy life, Lawrence? My Lady Madison

may scarce be as content as thou with the cruse and the cake, and in all

cases, two lack more provision than one."

Mr. Robesart had dropped almost unconsciously into the familiar _thou_,

always used to the little Lawrence of old. His hearer liked it far

better than the ceremonious _you_, which he had taken up since Lawrence

became a man.

"I think that is not in my future," was the low-voiced answer.

"Be not too sure," said the priest. "Some of our Father's best gifts

are they which we count too good to look for. Yet soothly, Lawrence, I

would not wish thee a wife like--like some women be."

Lawrence leaned forward with a glow in his eyes, and spoke in a whisper.

"Wala wa! Father, it lieth sore and heavy at mine heart that the

friends _he_ had to mourn him have been only the men and women of his

meynie. The one whom he loved better than all the world hath not shed

one true tear for his loss!"

"My son!" said Mr. Robesart tenderly,--with a tenderness which was not

all for Lawrence,--"he hath seen the Face of God, and he is satisfied

with it."

"We loved him dear enough, at least," said Lawrence in a choked voice.

"Lawrence, canst thou not forgive her?--and that man that shot the

arrow, hast thou forgiven him? Dost thou know who it was?"

"I am right thankful to answer No to that last. I saw not from what bow

the cursed shaft came. But to think that I may be speaking to that man

as a friend, _not_ knowing----"

Lawrence left his sentence unfinished.

"Maybe it were meant for another," said Mr. Robesart quietly. "But if

no--mind thou, my son, how God dealeth with thee and me, whose sins slew

the Son of His love, and He knoweth it."

They set out for Usk the next day, taking the same route which Roger had

traversed in life only four months before. His coffin was borne upon a

bier drawn by six horses, through the green valleys of Kildare and

Carlow and Wexford, and at Wexford Haven was transferred to a boat, the

Chanty, which bore it across in the calm August sunlight to Haverford.

Two days' journey took them to Caermarthen, where the travellers were

housed in the Castle, and the corpse in the Church of St. Peter, watched

all night by monks and four squires, and sprinkled frequently with holy

water. Three days more took them to Merthyr Tydvil, a fourth to

Pontypool, and on the afternoon of the fifth, which was the first of

September, they marched in slow and solemn procession into Usk.

Before entering the town a fresh arrangement of the procession was made.

First came the body of archers, carrying their bows unstrung in sign of

mourning; then two knights of the household of the deceased Earl, the

one bearing his pennon, the other his helmet with its crest. Then came

his war-horse, led by a squire bare-headed, and caparisoned with all its

ceremonial trappings--the saddle-cloth of blue velvet, broidered with

silver ostrich-feathers (gold ones were peculiar to the monarch), a

saddle-cloth which covered the horse from ears to hoofs, leaving only an

outlet for the nose and the eyes--the bridle being of gilded leather,

and the stirrup of gilt copper. After the horse walked Mr. Robesart, in

full canonicals, bearing aloft a silver cross. Then came the bier,

borne by ten spearmen specially selected from the corps--men whose

qualifications for the office were good character and much physical

strength. Immediately following, clad in white, then the colour of

deepest mourning, came the little Lady Anne, on a white horse--truly the

chief mourner for that father who had been her best friend in all the

world. Her horse was led by a bare-headed squire. A little behind her,

on the right, rode Lord Bardolf, and on the left the Lady Agnes. The

remainder of the household, which included Guenllian, Beatrice, and

Lawrence, rode after, and the company of spearmen closed the funeral

procession.

Thus they bore him dead into the Castle of Usk, which he had entered

living, an infant gift from God, on that very morning, twenty-five years

before.

A trumpeter had been sent forward to announce the coming of the

procession; and when they crossed the drawbridge, and filed slowly in

beneath the portcullis into the court-yard, they were met by a group of

black monks from the neighbouring Benedictine Abbey, the foremost

swinging a censer, and two others sprinkling holy water. The bier was

set down immediately under the portcullis, and there it rested while the

_De Profundis_ was chanted, in presence of the garrison and of many

members of the household. The entire procession was meantime arrested.

With an irrepressible sob, Guenllian whispered to Lawrence, "'They that

bare him stood still.' Here is the city, and there is the bier: but

where is He that can say, 'Arise'?"

Lawrence answered by a quotation from the same book. "'I am again

rising and life; ... he that believeth in Me shall not die withouten

end. Believest thou this?'"

"It is hard to believe where man seeth not."

"Therefore the more 'Blessed is she which hath believed.' 'Nyl ye fere:

only believe.'"

"Believe _what_?" said Beatrice, with a dreary sigh, suppressed when

half drawn.

"Believe nothing, Mistress Beatrice," replied Lawrence with a soft

intonation which Guenllian had noticed to come into his voice only when

he spoke to Beatrice. "'Believe in God, and believe in Me.' It is not

_what_ we must believe; it is _whom_. And whom is far easier than what.

To believe a thing or a doctrine taketh the head only; but to believe a

man, and that the Man that died for you, this methinks taketh the heart

belike. Trust and love be right near akin. And hearts be soft, while

heads be hard to deal withal. Matters be apt to steal into the heart ere

you shall wit it, which should take many a weary hour to beat into the

head."

"Neither come they so easy out when they be once lodged therein," added

Guenllian.

"You speak soothly, Mistress Wenteline," answered Lawrence.

But now the procession moved on again, and they with it. Into the great

hall of the Castle they slowly filed, and there found a most effective

dramatic scene prepared to meet them.

The Countess Alianora sat on the dais, robed in pure white, the earliest

garb of widowhood, which covered so much of the face that only the

features were left visible in the midst. But she had chosen to hide

everything by an embroidered handkerchief, in which her eyes were

concealed. There she sat, the image of inconsolable woe and utter

desolation, while Consolation, in the person of the Lord Charlton of

Powys leaned over her chair and tried to gain a hearing. Terrible sobs

were rending her breast, and she seemed quite unable to speak. When at

last she managed to rise and approach the coffin,--leaning on the arm of

Lord Powys, which appeared absolutely necessary for her support,--she

had scarcely taken the sprinkler from the hand of her chaplain when she

dropped it and sank down in a faint. Of course Lord Powys caught her:

could he as a knight or a person of any humanity have permitted a lady

to drop to the floor? But Guenllian was so misguided as to allow

herself to see that her mistress took care in fainting not to entangle

herself in her train, and that she dropped the sprinkler in such a

position that it should not damage her new velvet.

"She hath swooned right away!" exclaimed Beatrice in a pitying tone.

She did not see through the stained glass of Alianora's beautiful and

becoming attitudes.

"It is not ill played," was Guenllian's answer, in a rather constrained

tone.

That evening, when Guenllian and Beatrice attended the _coucher_ of the

afflicted widow, it fell to the lot of the latter to remove the used

handkerchief from the pocket of her lady's dress, and place it in the

buck-basket which contained the articles ready for the wash.

"My Lady must have some whither another sudary," observed she to

Guenllian. "This is full dry, and she wept sore."

"Lay it in the basket, Beattie," was Guenllian's quiet reply. "I

misdoubt if thou shalt find any other."

*CHAPTER XII.*

*LAWRENCE'S REWARD.*

"Walking together o'er the restless earth

With faces set to the eternal hills."

--REV. HORATIUS BONAR.

Lawrence Madison had time given him to recover, for it was November

before the funeral cortege left Usk for Wigmore. Earl Roger was found to

have died intestate. It was no wonder, for how could he have

anticipated that his life would end as or when it had done? This fact

left all the details of his burial, usually so carefully provided for in

the will of the deceased, to the decision of the survivors. The

Countess, when appealed to, replied that her unspeakable affliction

could not concern itself with matters of that kind; she would be obliged

to Lord Bardolf to see that all was done properly, and to leave her

alone with her life-long sorrow. Having said which, she called for a

backgammon board, and was soon smilingly interested in a game with my

Lord Powys.

Lord Powys, however, perceived that notwithstanding the distraction of

backgammon, something was really annoying the lady of his heart: and

after a sufficient administration of flattery and coaxing, he succeeded

in inducing her to confess what it was. She was seriously distressed at

the discovery that her husband had left no will, for what that meant was

that her only claim on his property was a third share in the estate.

Had he attended properly to his conjugal duties, he ought to have made a

much better provision for her. Now, when her eldest son came of age,

and his wardship ceased, two-thirds of the estate would go to him, and

she would be left in a position which it pleased her to regard as

equivalent to destitution. Considering that this lamentable descent

from affluence to poverty would leave her Ladyship with a small balance

of about a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, according to the value of

money at the present day, it may be supposed that there was a slight

twinkle in the eyes of Lord Powys while he condoled in a grave voice

with the calamitous widow. He thought her still quite sufficiently

golden to be worth the trouble of wooing, and she knew it. He was

moreover aware that a very large casket of jewels lay at her disposal,

and that dexterous management might squeeze a further grant out of the

Crown. Alianora was troubled by no fear of losing Lord Powys, and had

she been so, would readily have comforted herself with anybody else who

possessed good looks, gentlemanly manners, and a flattering tongue. But

before this little arrangement with Lord Powys could come to pass, a

licence was required from the Crown, and this in Alianora's case would

be an awkward and delicate business. The King might not

approve--probably would not approve--of the widow of his heir

presumptive throwing herself away on an obscure Welsh baron. And

Alianora was determined to marry Lord Powys, who suited her taste much

better than Roger had done. He was not a handsomer man, but he was

good-looking, and he possessed a tongue of that silvery description

which, to use the Irishman's expression, "would wile a bird off a tree."

His tastes accorded with hers; he knew how to please her--an art in

which Roger, with all his desire to do it, had been much less of an

adept--he was an exquisite hand at that airy small-talk which Alianora

loved better than she loved her children, and his supply of flattery

equalled the demand, which implies that it was deep and extensive

indeed. Alianora, therefore, set what she called her heart--namely, an

obstinate unreasoning will--upon Edward Charlton, and was determined to

marry him, obstacles or no obstacles. In order to do this, a licence to

marry whom she would must be procured from the Crown,--no hint being

given of whom it was to be: and this could not in decency be asked for

until some months had elapsed after Roger's death. She obtained it,

however, before twelve months were over: and having done so, she

instantly gave her hand to Lord Powys in the Castle chapel, to the

annoyance of all her own relations, and the decided displeasure of the

King. That did not matter to her: once secure of her prize, she could

snap her fingers at them all.

She had, in fact, though it may be doubted if King Richard knew it, done

the one thing which her licence bound her not to do, and married one of

the King's enemies. Lord Powys was an adherent of Henry of Lancaster,

and one of the bitterest anti-Lollards in the kingdom.[#] They both

knew that they could reasonably expect no extraordinary favours at the

hands of the reigning King, and they contrived to bear existence on that

poor pittance of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, until, only four

months after the granting of the licence, which was one of the last acts

of King Richard, Henry of Lancaster, Earl of Derby, unseated his cousin

and occupied his throne. He might be expected to have friendly

intentions towards Powys and Alianora. She accordingly, in due time and

form, represented to the new King "the charge she was at in maintenance

of her two daughters," Anne and Alianora; "the devastation of all her

dowry in Wales, and the spoil of her late husband's lands by the Welsh,"

and prayed for relief from the Crown. Henry answered her

characteristically, and in a manner which arouses an idea that his clear

cold eyes saw through her dramatic craft. He granted her, to the value

of a hundred guineas per annum, all annuities, forfeitures, and

reversions which Earl Roger had assigned during his life:--a clever mode

of making provision in name, with very little solid advantage to accrue.

It was not for long that Alianora survived this episode. She died at

the birth of Joyce Charlton, the second child of her second marriage,

leaving her elder children in prison, and going to her own place--the

place she was fit for, and the place she had chosen.

[#] It is doubtful if he were not also to some extent an adherent of

Gloucester, for in the previous November he had suffered eleven days

imprisonment in the Tower, evidently on some such suspicion. (Close

Roll, 21 Ric. II., Part 1.)

But this is an anticipation, and we must return to that November morning

on which the funeral procession quitted Usk for Wigmore.

The bier was placed on a charette, and covered with a pall of black

cloth, surmounted by the waxen image then always carried outside the

coffin, the face of which was a mask taken from that of the corpse

beneath. Two horses drew the charette until about a mile from Wigmore,

when four more were added in order to form a more imposing spectacle.

Lord Bardolf rode behind the coffin, on the right hand of the young

Earl, who was chief mourner, and whose horse was led, at the leader's

special request, by Sir Lawrence Madison. It was usual to depute a

squire to this work: and it was paying the highest honour in his power

to the dead and the living, that Lawrence should demean himself to do

it.

The little Earl, seven years old, behaved extremely well, as was

admitted and admired by everybody. He really behaved so well, because he

felt so little. The true son of Alianora, it was not in his nature to

love any creature but Edmund Mortimer, nor even for his own ultimate

benefit was he ready to take much trouble. He took the loss of a father

at seven years of age, as he afterwards took the loss of a crown at

fourteen, with the most philosophical placidity.

At the door of the Abbey Church of St. James at Wigmore, the Benedictine

Abbot and his canons met the coffin of the Lord of the Marches of Wales.

Over the coffin was a pall of cloth of gold, edged with blue, the

colours of the house of Mortimer. It was borne by six squires on each

side, but once more Sir Lawrence Madison stepped forward, and took the

place of the foremost squire. His hand should be among those which

performed the last offices to the brother of his love,--"More than his

brothers were to him."

When the bier was set down before the high altar, twenty-five poor men

clad in white, according to the number of the years of the dead, came

forward to receive the thick wax tapers which they were to hold during

the service, standing about the coffin.

Then came the solemn mass, accompanied as it always is, by that grandest

of all funeral hymns which, like the inspired hymnal of King David,

seems to be inimitable in translated metre:--

"Recordare, Jesu pie,

Quod sum causa taae viae;

Ne me perdas ilia die!

"Quaerens me sedisti lassus,

Redemisti crucem passus;

Tantus labor non sit cassus."

When the coffin had been lowered into the vault,--to which again, the

last office, Lawrence lent his hand--the mourners slowly filed out of

the church, each as he passed the vault receiving the sprinkler from the

hand of a priest in attendance, and sprinkling the coffin with holy

water. They returned to Usk not as they had come, in ceremonial

procession, but in a quiet and orderly group.

Considerable time elapsed, and much investigation was necessary, before

Lawrence could discover what had become of the relatives whom he had

left in the hut at the foot of the castle, eighteen years before. The

parents of Beatrice (his old friends Blumond and Philippa) were dead;

and having been an only child, she had no near relatives whose

assistance could be lent in the matter. For a long while, all that he

could ascertain with any certainty was that the present inhabitants of

the hut knew nothing of the late ones, and that an old woman, the only

person left of those who had dwelt there in Lawrence's childhood, could

tell him that his mother was dead, two of his sisters married and gone,

and that his father and his brother Simon had been removed to some other

estate of their feudal owner--"down yonder," said she, with a nod of her

head towards the north, which might take in a large tract of country.

What had befallen the younger brother and sister she appeared to have no

idea. All to whom Lawrence applied gave him an answer, half awe-struck,

half kindly, excepting those whose brains and hearts seemed dulled by

hard usage. Most promised to bear the matter in mind, and to make such

inquiries as they had opportunity.

Lawrence had never realised the immensity of the change in himself,

until he attempted thus to resume the old familiar relations with that

stratum of society into which he was born. Through constant association

with educated gentlemen, he had become one of them in thought and

feeling; but he was never aware how thoroughly, until he tried to be

once more that which he had ceased to be. His first thought was that

the people of Usk had changed--they were more cold-hearted, and less

homely and pleasant, than they had been in his boyhood. He discovered

in time that the alteration was not in them, but in himself, and that

all they were guilty of was the unavoidable and intuitive recognition

that he belonged to the group of masters, and no more to that of serfs.

But the discovery was not perfected until one evening, when a dirty,

slatternly woman of about thirty years of age presented herself at the

porter's lodge of Usk Castle, and demanded in a whining tone to see one

Lawrence Madison.

"'Lawrence Madison,' forsooth!" returned the scandalised porter. "Is it

thus thou wouldst speak of one of the most gallant knights in England?

Mend thy ways, woman, and say Sir Lawrence, and then maybe I can find

the time to answer thee."

"Eh, lo' you now!" exclaimed the woman, resting a dirty hand against the

stone wall. "Is't so fine as that, trow? Well, Master Porter, or Sir

Porter, or my Lord Porter, as it shall like your Bigness, I would see

_Sir_ Lawrence Madison, if it should like you demean you to go and tell

him so much, and him to come hither and behold his sister."

"His what?" inquired the porter in an indescribable tone, reviewing the

querist in a style which was scarcely flattering.

"His sister," coolly returned the unabashed young woman. "His father's

daughter, and his mother's belike, byname Emmot, and wife unto Will

Sumpterman, that keepeth my Lord Le Despenser his baggage mules, and

hath trapesed many a weary mile to speak with my said worshipful knight.

Canst carry so much, thinkest?"

The disgusted porter turned away without deigning a reply; but his wife,

who had overheard the colloquy, came forward and in politic wise invited

Emmot to enter the lodge. There Lawrence found her when the porter

returned with him. His first idea had been one of great pleasure. But

when he saw the dirty, untidy, miserable-looking creature who called him

Brother, a mixed feeling of compassion and disgust took its place.

To him she was another woman, and was very far from braving him as she

had done the porter.

"Give you good den, Sir Lawrence," said she, louting low: "Metrusteth

you shall not have forgat your sister Emmot, that is your own flesh and

blood, and right ill off, with eight childre that have scarce a rag to

their backs, nor an handful of meal to put in their mouths, I do ensure

you. We have heard you be come back a knight, worshipful Sir, with a

fortune in broad gold pieces, and sure you would never forget your own

flesh and blood. Mariot hath but five childre, and her man was better

off than mine; and Joan hath but two. So you shall see, sweet Sir, I

cast no doubt, that 'tis I have the most need of your bountifulness,

good Sir Lawrence."

Lawrence's awakened pity was rapidly passing into unspeakable disgust.

He had come home prepared to divide his savings among these relatives,

as being his own flesh and blood: but he was not prepared to find them

throwing themselves upon him like a pack of wolves, intent upon nothing

but the horrible emulation which of them could bite the largest piece

out of him, and each utterly unconcerned whether the rest got any thing

at all. It cost him something to say "Sister" to this wretched

creature--not because she was poor,--Lawrence would never have felt

that--but because she was vulgar and slovenly, disgusting alike in mind

and body. He controlled himself, however, and passing by the too

evident spirit of her speech, asked what she could tell him of the other

members of the family. Emmot's communicativeness cooled manifestly. She

professed that she knew nothing of the others, and Lawrence had to

remind her what she had just said. After a little fencing she admitted

that she knew where nearly all of them were. Mariot was living about

two miles from Usk, and her husband had been a miner; he was dead, and

she made a living by plaiting straw. One of her sons was quite old

enough to work--a fact on which Emmot laid great stress; her husband had

been a freeman, and none of the family were serfs except herself, which

was an enormous advantage: and Joan's husband was a serf, so that she

and her family were kept at their master's cost, and needed nothing

whatever,--another enormous advantage; and she had only two children.

And once more the eight children of the illogical Emmot were paraded

rhetorically before Lawrence.

He gave her a handsome donation, over which she grumbled sorely, and he

turned away sick at heart.

Lawrence's next work was to visit his father, who lived a day's journey

away, with his son Simon and his family. Nicholas showed some interest

in his youngest son, and some slight affection for him; and he did not

ask for money--an omission fully made up by Simon's wife. Simon himself

proved the least changed of any of the family. Grim and surly as far

back as Lawrence could recollect him, he was grim and surly still.

Lawrence left another donation here, and coming back, went a little out

of his way to call upon his sister Joan.

If this lady had fewer children than her sister, she supplied the gap by

a larger quantity of grumbling. When he left her--having had hard work

to get away--Lawrence really wondered if she could have been more

abusive had he refused her a penny. It was with a sensation of utter

disgust with the whole concern that he went to pay his last visit, to

his sister Mariot.

He found a trim, neat little cottage by the roadside, where a clean,

smiling lad was cutting up a log of wood, and a tidy, pleasant-looking

girl was sewing in the little porch. And when Lawrence had made known

his wishes, and the girl had called "Mother!" to someone in the inner

room--the cottage only held two--the woman who came forward in answer

had a clean rosy face, and smooth black hair neatly braided.

"Mariot, dost thou mind thy youngest brother?"

"Lolly! Eh, my little lad, is it thou?"

She laid both hands on his shoulders and turned him round to the light.

"My dear lad! My own little Lolly! Mind thee? aye, that do I,

forsooth. And thou art come back to Usk?--is it to 'bide there? And

how goes it with thee, lad? art wed? and hast done well? Tell me all

about thee, Lolly."

It was an entirely different welcome from any of the rest. The news

that Lawrence was a knight, and had returned possessed of a sum which in

her eyes was great riches, did not seem to strike Mariot in any light

but that of being glad for him. And when he offered her the same sum

which he had given to the rest, and they had received so murmuringly, to

his surprise she refused it.

"Nay, lad, I'll not take thy gold," said Mariot. "I want for nought, God

be thanked, and my childre be good childre; and Jack hath so much as he

can do, and Alice yonder can make a pretty penny in the straw plaiting,

and Maud comes on well with her sewing. Surely it were ill done, even

had I need, that thy brethren and sisters should strip thee of every

penny! Little Lolly, I guess I was pretty nigh the only one that loved

thee as a babe, and now, thanks be to God, since I knew how He loved me

I have learned to love better. Go thy ways, lad, and see to thine own

well-doing, and keep thy bits of savings in thy pocket. I am every whit

as much beholden to thee as if thou hadst given me a thousand marks.

But bethink thee somewhat of thine own future: for when folk think not

of their own selves--of the which sort there be main few, by my

troth--other folk must think for them. Thou shalt wish to wed one of

these days, an' thou dost not now: and how shall that be compassed with

never a plack in thy pocket? Go thy ways, and get thee a good wife and

a pleasant home--the which shall do me a much more pleasure than to have

the spending of thy gold. Choose her by a true heart, and not by a fair

face, and ask our Lord to help thee in the choosing, and then thou shalt

do well. And now and anon, when thou hast an hour or twain to spare,

come down hither and drink thy four-hours with us, and give me to wit of

thy welfare--that shall pleasure me full greatly. My Lady Madison,

trow, shall be too fine to sup her four-hours with a miner's widow; but

I would like to see thee by nows and thens."

"She will not be my wife an' she so be," said Lawrence: "but truly,

Mariot, I look for no such, and it should better serve that thou wouldst

leave me help thee."

"Go to!" said Mariot with a knowing smile. "How many a time, thinkest,

have I heard that saying from folks at whose wedding I have danced

within the next twelvemonth? Thine eyes be tell-tales, Lolly. An' thou

be heart-free, mine eyes be no true men."

"Thou sayest sooth," was Lawrence's answer, in rather a sorrowful tone.

"But one heart is not enough for a wedding, my sister. More than one

swallow goeth to make a summer."

"Dear heart, two swallows were plenty for that summer," replied Mariot,

laughing. "Hast asked her, lad?" she added somewhat drily.

Lawrence confessed the negative.

"Art awaiting till she ask thee?" demanded Mariot with an amused look.

"Scarce that, methinks. Nay, Mariot, she hath thought of the veil. Who

am I, that I should set me in rivalry with God?"

"Go to!" returned Mariot, with a strong good sense which was not common

in her era. "Veils be for broken hearts and worn-down widows, and

unchilded mothers--for women which have smoothed down the green turf

over their hearts' best love. They be not for young maids, fresh and

bright, with life opening afore them. Never think it!"

"Yet we should give God the best," said Lawrence sadly.

"Give Him what He asketh of thee, Lolly. Methinks that is not often the

making a man's life desolate. But is the cloister the only way to give

to God? Didst learn that from the Word, or out of thine own heart? He

that trusteth his own heart is a fool."

"Why, Mariot, art not giving me counsel to trust mine own heart in this

matter?"

"Never a whit. I counsel thee to trust God's providence, and let Him

choose for thee. If He have not meant this maid for thee, have no fear

she shall say yea to thine asking. Do the thing that did King Ezekias,

my dear lad--spread it before the Lord, and ask Him to lead her in

accordance with His will. Then speak, and fear not. How wist thou that

in her mind the choice lieth not betwixt the cloister and thee,--and if

thy tongue be dumb, she must needs choose the other. She'll not ask

thee, I reckon."

"She loveth me not at all," said Lawrence.

"I'd make sure," was Mariot's quiet conclusion. "There be some nuts be

all o'er prickles o' the outside, which be good enough when thou hast

stripped off the bur."

"Mistress Wenteline," said Lawrence, the next morning, "will you do me

so much favour as tell me if Mistress Beatrice hath yet purpose to be a

nun?"

"I believe," answered Guenllian, "she hath purpose to be veiled with the

White Ladies of Limbroke, if it may be, this next month." But as

Lawrence passed on, she said to herself, "Unless you can persuade her

out of it!"

A few hours later, when the dusk had come, as Lawrence crossed the

ante-chamber, into which the moon was shining brightly, he saw a dark

figure standing in the recess of the window, and went up to it. His

heart, rather than his eyes, told him who it was.

"Is it you, Mistress Beatrice?"

"It is I, Sir Lawrence."

The old playmates had become excessively ceremonious to each other. The

brotherly sort of intercourse, resumed on their meeting at Trim, had

been quite dropped, and they were as distantly civil as if they had made

acquaintance only a few days before.

"You can scarce see much hence, methinketh."

"It is fair enough," said Beatrice, absently; adding after a moment,

"fair enough for one who shall soon behold nought beyond convent walls."

"Are you well avised thereabout, Mistress Beatrice?"

"I think so much," she answered, gravely.

"Thus said Father Robesart. Yet he seemed, something doubtful if you

have well judged therein, as methought. It were grave matter to blunder

over, Mistress Beatrice. There is no coming forth, howsoe'er one may

desire it."

"No," she said--and said no more.

Lawrence took another step, and dropped a little of his ceremoniousness

to do it.

"Beatrice, dear old friend, is this for your happiness? Not one other

word will I speak if you ensure me thereof."

"Happiness is not the only thing," she said in a constrained voice.

"Not so, maybe, for you to think on: yet methinks you might allow for

your friends to concern them touching the same."

Beatrice made no reply.

"Are you well assured that our Lord calls you to that life, dear

Beatrice? Might it not be better for you, no less than for other, that

you should make happy some home and heart, rather than bury yourself in

the cloister? Think well of it, ere you cast die that can never be

recalled."

"I have thought of it," said Beatrice in rather a hard tone. "I am not

wanted otherwhere. Why should I not be a nun?"

"Because you were never meant for one. Because it is not the right life

for you, for whom life is but just opening. Because----"

Beatrice interrupted him. "Life opening! Your pardon, Sir Lawrence.

Life has closed for me."

"You think so much now," he answered, gently. "This time next year, will

you so think? Not wanted! Would you come where you were? I could tell

you of one who wanteth you more than words can tell,--to whom the world

will be black gloom if you go forth of it. But let that pass. I meant

not to speak--Beattie, old friend, old playmate, sister if I may call

you so, leave me plead with you this once, ere you bury your youth and

hope where neither hope nor gladness can enter more. I know you too

well, Beattie! You would be miserable in the cloister. Why not make

some other life happy, and your own joined thereto?"

He listened earnestly for her answer. One more negative, and he would

let her alone, to go her own way, though his way would be darkness and

loneliness thenceforward. Lawrence's love was very unselfish. If

Beatrice had loved some one who was not himself, he would have given her

every penny he possessed for her fortune, had he thought that the want

of fortune barred her from happiness. But he did not think that she

loved any one, and himself least of all. Only he could not bear the

thought of the cloister for Blumond's Beattie, and he thought he knew

her well enough to be sure that it would be misery in the latter end.

"I will," said Beatrice in a low voice, keeping her face in shadow. "I

will, if----"

"If what, dear Beattie?"

"If it may be yours, Lawrence."

*HISTORICAL APPENDIX.*

MORTIMER OF MARCH.

Roger Mortimer, third Earl of March, eldest and only surviving son of

Edmund second Earl and Elizabeth de Badlesmere was born in 1328, and

stood eighth on the list of original Knights of the Garter: died at

Rouvray, in Burgundy, Feb. 26th, 1360; buried at Wigmore. Married

PHILIPPA, daughter of William de Montacute, first Earl of Salisbury, and

Katherine Grandison; for whom Earl Roger's marriage was granted to her

father, 1336: died Jan. 5th, 1382; buried at Bisham.

Issue:--

1. Roger, died young.

2. Alice, affianced in 1354 to Edmund, son of Richard Earl of Arundel,

and then under thirteen years of age; died before marriage.

3. EDMUND, 4th Earl, born at Langenith, Feb. 1st, 1352; affianced 1354

to Alice, daughter of Richard Earl of Arundel (marriage broken off);

received into fraternity, Canterbury Cathedral, July 7th, 1379; died at

Cork, from cold taken in fording the Lee, Dec. 27th, 1381; buried at

Bisham. Married

PHILIPPA, only child of Lionel Duke of Clarence (son of Edward III.) and

his first wife Elizabeth de Burgh: born at Eltham Palace, Aug. 16th,

1355; married in the Queen's Chapel, probably at Reading, 1359,

apparently before Feb. 15th, and certainly before July 16th: died

shortly before Jan. 7th, 1378; buried at Wigmore.

4. John, died young.

Issue of Edmund 4th Earl:--

1. Elizabeth, born at Usk, Feb. 12th, 1371; married (1) before May 1st,

1380, Henry Lord Percy, surnamed Hotspur (2) after Oct. 8th, 1403,

Thomas Lord Camoys; living 1417; Inq. Post Mortem, 5 Hen. V.: buried at

Trotton with second husband. Left issue by both marriages.

2. ROGER, 5th Earl; born at Usk, Sept. 1st, 1373; affianced 1385 to

(probably Alice) daughter of Richard 12th Earl of Arundel (marriage

broken off at the request of Princess of Wales): Viceroy of Ireland 20

to 22 Ric. II.: killed in skirmish, Kenles, Ireland, "adventuring

himself before his army in an Irish habit," July 20th, 1398; buried at

Wigmore. Declared heir of the Crown in Parliament, 9 Ric. II. Married

ALIANORA, eldest daughter of Thomas de Holand, Earl of Kent, and Alesia

de Arundel: born 1370-2, married after Oct. 7th, 1388, when Earl Roger's

marriage was granted to her father (re-married, licence dat. June 19th,

1399, Edward de Charlton, Lord Powys): died Oct. 23rd, 1405; buried at

Wigmore.

3. Philippa, born at Ludlow, Nov. 21st, 1375: married (1) John Hastings,

3rd and last Earl of Pembroke, after Sept. 24th, 1383 (2) pardon dat.

Nov. 10, 1391, for fine of 500 marks, Richard, 12th Earl of Arundel, (3)

after Sept. 1397, John, Lord St. John of Basing: died Sept. 24th, 1401

(Inq. P. Mort.), Sept. 26th, 1400 (Registry of Lewes): buried at

Boxgrove. Left issue by last marriage only.

Edmund, born at Ludlow, Nov. 1377: fled into Wales after battle of

Shrewsbury, 1403; Inq. 16 Hen. VI. 24. Married

Katherine, daughter of Owain Glyndwr and Margaret Hanmer, married 1402;

died prisoner, London, about Nov. 1413; buried there in St. Swithin's

Church. Issue doubtful, but comprising a son and two daughters at

least.

Issue of Roger 5th Earl:--ANNE, born Dec. 27th, 1388 (Dugdale, doubtless

a mistake for 1389): married after Jan. 9th, 1407, Richard of York, Earl

of Cambridge; died about Sept. 1410; buried probably in Abbey Church,

King's Langley.

2. Edmund, 6th and last Earl, born in New Forest, Nov. 6th, 1391; died

at Trim Castle, Jan. 19th, 1425; buried at Stoke Clare. Married (but

left no issue),

Anne, daughter of Edmund Earl of Stafford and Princess Anne of

Gloucester: married about 1413-1415; (remarried, 1429, John de Holand,

Duke of Exeter); died Sept. 20th or 24th, 1432; buried in Church of St.

Katherine, Tower, with second husband.

3. Roger, born at Nethewode, Mar. 24th, 1393; died prisoner in Windsor

Castle, after Aug. 26th, 1404, and probably after 1405; buried at Stoke

Priory.

* * * * * * * *

*Stories of English Life.*

*BY EMILY S. HOLT.*

A.D. 597

I. Imogen:

A TALE OF THE EARLY BRITISH CHURCH.

A.D. 1066

II. Behind the Veil:

A STORY OF THE NORMAN CONQUEST.

A.D. 1159

III. One Snowy Night;

OR, LONG AGO AT OXFORD.

A.D. 1189

IV. Lady Sybil's Choice:

A TALE OF THE CRUSADES.

A.D. 1214

V. Earl Hubert's Daughter;

OR, THE POLISHING OF THE PEARL.

A.D. 1325

VI. In all Time of our Tribulation:

THE STORY OF PIERS GAVESTONE.

A.D. 1350

VII. The White Lady of Hazelwood:

THE WARRIOR COUNTESS OF MONTFORT.

A.D. 1352

VIII. Countess Maud;

OR, THE CHANGES OF THE WORLD.

A.D. 1360

IX. In Convent Walls:

THE STORY OF THE DESPENSERS.

A.D. 1377

X. John De Wycliffe,

AND WHAT HE DID FOR ENGLAND.

A.D. 1384

XI. The Lord Mayor:

A TALK OF LONDON IN 1384.

A.D. 1390

XII. Under One Sceptre:

THE STORY OF THE LORD OF THE MARCHES

A.D. 1400

XIII. The White Rose of Langley;

OR, THE STORY OF CONSTANCE LE DESPENSER.

A.D. 1400

XIV. Mistress Margery:

A TALE OF THE LOLLARDS.

A.D. 1400

XV. Margery's Son;

OR, UNTIL HE FIND IT.

A.D. 1470

XVI. Red and White;

OR, THE WARS OF THE ROSES.

A.D. 1480

XVII. The Tangled Web:

A TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.

A.D. 1515

XVIII. The Harvest of Yesterday:

A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

A.D. 1530

XIX. Lettice Eden;

OR, THE LAMPS OF EARTH AND THE LIGHTS OF HEAVEN.

A.D. 1535

XX. Isoult Barry of Wynscote:

A TALE OF TUDOR TIMES.

A.D. 1544

XXI. Through the Storm;

OR, THE LORD'S PRISONERS.

A.D. 1555

XXII. Robin Tremayne:

A TALE OF THE MARIAN PERSECUTION.

A.D. 1556

XXIII. All's Well;

OR, ALICE'S VICTORY.

A.D. 1556

XXIV. The King's Daughters.

HOW TWO GIRLS KEPT THE FAITH.

A.D. 1569

XXV. Sister Rose;

OR, THE EVE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW.

A.D. 1579

XXVI. Joyce Morrell's Harvest:

A STORY OF THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH.

A.D. 1588

XXVII. Clare Avery:

A STORY OF THE SPANISH ARMADA.

A.D. 1605

XXVIII. It Might Have Been:

THE STORY OF GUNPOWDER PLOT.

A.D. 1635

XXIX. Minster Lovel:

A STORY OF THE DAYS OF LAUD.

A.D. 1662

XXX. Wearyholme;

A STORY OF THE RESTORATION.

A.D. 1712

XXXI. The Maiden's Lodge;

OR, THE DAYS OF QUEEN ANNE.

A.D. 1745

XXXII. Out in the Forty-five;

OR, DUNCAN KEITH'S VOW.

A.D. 1750

XXXIII. Ashcliffe Hall:

A TALE OF THE LAST CENTURY.

XXXIV. A.D. 1556

For the Master's Sake;

OR, THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.

A.D. 1345

The Well in the Desert.

AN OLD LEGEND.

XXXV. A.D. 1559

All for the Best;

OR, BERNARD GILPIN'S MOTTO.

A.D. 1560

At the Grene Griffin:

A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

XXXVI. A.D. 1270

Our Little Lady;

OR, SIX HUNDRED YEARS AGO

A.D. 1652

Gold that Glitters;

OR, THE MISTAKES OF JENNY LAVENDER.

XXXVII. A.D. 1290

A Forgotten Hero:

THE STORY OF ROGER DE MORTIMER.

A.D. 1266

Princess Adelaide:

A STORY OF THE SIEGE OF KENILWORTH.

XXXVIII. 1ST CENTURY.

The Slave Girl of Pompeii.

2ND CENTURY.

The Way of the Cross.

TALES OF THE EARLY CHURCH

A.D. 870 to 1580

XXXIX. Lights in the Darkness:

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.

A.D. 1873

XL. Verena.

SAFE PATHS AND SLIPPERY BYE-WAYS.

A Story of To-day.

* * * * *

SPLENDID BOOKS FOR BOYS.

By DR. GORDON STABLES.

'TWIXT DAYDAWN AND LIGHT. A Tale of the Times of Alfred the Great.

FOR HONOUR NOT HONOURS. The Story of Gordon of Khartoum.

FOR CROSS OR CRESCENT. A Tale of Richard the Lion-hearted.

ON TO THE RESCUE. A Tale of the Indian Mutiny.

HEARTS OF OAK. A Story of Nelson and the Navy,

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER. A Story of the Stirring Times of Old.

EXILES OF FORTUNE. The Story of a Far North Land.

TWO SAILOR LADS. Their Stirring Adventures on Sea and Land.

FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY. A Tale of Battle and the Breeze.

IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE. A Tale of the Old Land and the New.

FACING FEARFUL ODDS. A Tale of Flood and Field.

IN THE DASHING DAYS OF OLD; or, The World-wide Adventures of Willie

Grant.

* * * * *

STORIES BY E. EVERETT-GREEN.

ARNOLD INGLEHURST. A Story of the Fen Country.

EUSTACE MARCHMONT. A Friend of the People.

HER HUSBAND'S HOME; or, The Durleys of Linley Castle.

THE YOUNG RECRUIT; or, A Soldier's Son.

PAT, THE LIGHTHOUSE BOY.

MARJORIE AND MURIEL; or, Two London Homes.

HIS MOTHER'S BOOK.

LITTLE FREDDIE; or, Friends in Need.

BERTIE CLIFTON; or, Paul's Little Schoolfellow.

FRIENDS OR FOES? A Story for Boys and Girls.

RUTH'S LITTLE LADY.

OUR WINNIE; or, When the Swallows Go.

SHADOWLAND; or, What Lindis Accomplished.

* * * * *

GIFT BOOKS BY POPULAR AUTHORS.

HALF A DOZEN BOYS. | HALF A DOZEN GIRLS.

Memoirs of a Happy Naughty Childhood.

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE; or, The Cruise of the good ship "Boreas." By

Dr. GORDON STABLES, R.N.

EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS. A Story by AGNES GIBERNE.

FROGGY'S LITTLE BROTHER. A Story of the East End. By BRENDA. New

Illustrated Edition. Square.

LITTLE COUSINS; or, Georgia's Visit to Lotty. By BRENDA. With

Illustrations by T. PYM. Square.

VICTORIA BESS; or, The Ups and Downs of a Doll's Life. By BRENDA. With

Illustrations by T. PYM. Square.

LITTLE QUEENIE. A Story of Child-life Sixty Years Ago. By Mrs.

MARSHALL.

DEAN'S COURT; or, Lady-bird and her Friends. By Mrs. MARSHALL.

BLUEBELL. A Story of Child-life Nowadays. By Mrs. MARSHALL.

LILIAN'S HOPE. A Story for Girls. By CATHARINE SHAW.

* * * * *

GIFT BOOKS BY POPULAR AUTHORS.

THE ECHO-MAID, AND OTHER STORIES. By ALICIA ASPINWALL.

SHORT STORIES FOR SHORT PEOPLE. By ALICIA ASPINWALL.

SAHIB AND SEPOY; or, Saving an Empire. By LUCY TAYLOR, Author of "Our

Fritz," etc.

'TWIXT DAYDAWN AND LIGHT. A Tale of the Times of Alfred the Great. By

Dr. GORDON STABLES.

BRITAIN'S QUEEN. The Story of her Reign. By THOMAS PAUL.

ONE SNOWY NIGHT; or, Long Ago at Oxford. By E. S. HOLT.

ARNOLD INGLEHURST. A Story of the Fen Country. By EVELYN

EVERETT-GREEN.

* * * * *

STORIES BY EMMA MARSHALL.

A TRUE GENTLEWOMAN. The Story of Dame Margaret Hoby.

THE END CROWNS ALL. A Story of Life.

BISHOP'S CRANWORTH; or, Rosamond's Lamp.

LITTLE QUEENIE. A Story of Child-life Sixty Years Ago.

DEAN'S COURT; or, Lady-bird and her Friends.

BLUEBELL. A Story of Child-life Nowadays.

LITTLE MISS JOY.

HURLY-BURLY; or, After a Storm comes a Calm.

CURLEY'S CRYSTAL; or, A Light Heart Lives Long.

ROBERT'S RACE; or, More Haste Less Speed.

PETER'S PROMISES; or, Look before you Leap.

CLEMENT AND GEORGIE; or, Manners makyth Man.

A LITTLE CURIOSITY. With Illustrations.

* * * * *

STORIES BY AGNES GIBERNE,

Author of "Sun, Moon, and Stars," &c.

NIGEL BROWNING, our Father's Ward.

EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS. A Tale.

OLD COMRADES

LIFE-TANGLES; or, The Journal of Rhoda Frith.

LIFE IN A NUTSHELL: A Story.

IDA'S SECRET; or, The Towers of Ickledale.

WON AT LAST; or, Mrs. Briscoe's Nephews.

THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE.

THE OLD HOUSE IN THE CITY; or, Not Forsaken.

FLOSS SILVERTHORN; or, The Master's Little Handmaid.

MADGE HARDWICKE; or, The Mists of the Valley.

WILL FOSTER OF THE FERRY.

TOO DEARLY BOUGHT.

MISS PRIMROSE.

* * * * *

STORIES BY CATHARINE SHAW,

AT LAST; or, Cuthbert Wins.

ALICK'S HERO.

ONLY A COUSIN.

THE GABLED FARM; or, Young Workers for the King.

IN THE SUNLIGHT AND OUT OF IT. A Year of my Life-story.

NELLIE ARUNDEL. A Tale of Home-life.

"MOTHER MEG"; or, The Story of Dickie's Attic.

* * * * *

SOMETHING FOR SUNDAY.

SELECTED BY CATHARINE SHAW.

1st. OUTLINE TEXTS FOR PAINTING.

2nd. HAPPY HOURS WITH THE BIBLE.

3rd. ECHOES FROM THE BIBLE.

4th. ALPHABET TEXTS for PRICKING or PAINTING.

5th. MESSAGES FROM HEAVEN.

6th. GLEAMS OF GLORY FROM THE GOSPELS.

7th. A LARGE THOUGHT IN A LARGE WORD.

8th. SCRIPTURE FEAR NOTS.

9th. "ALL THINGS ARE YOURS."

10th. TEXTS FOR THE CHILDREN.

llth. CONSIDER THE LILIES.

* * * * *

STORIES BY L. T. MEADE,

Author of "Scamp and I," &c.

DOROTHY'S STORY; or, Great St. Benedict's.

A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY. A Tale.

BEL-MARJORY. A Tale.

SCAMP AND I. A Story of City Byeways.

THE CHILDREN'S KINGDOM; or, The Story of a Great Endeavour.

WATER GIPSIES. A Tale.

DAVID'S LITTLE LAD.

DOT AND HER TREASURES. With Illustrations.

OUTCAST ROBIN; or, Your Brother and Mine.

WHITE LILIES, AND OTHER TALES.

LETTIE'S LAST HOME.

THOSE BOYS. A Story for all Little Fellows.

* * * * *

STORIES BY GRACE STEBBING.

NEVER GIVE IN. The Story of Gustavus Adolphus.

A REAL HERO. A Story of the Conquest of Mexico.

IN ALL OUR DOINGS. A Story for Boys.

GRAHAM'S VICTORY. A Tale of the Covenanters.

WINNING AN EMPIRE; or, The Story of Clive.

SILVERDALE RECTORY; or, The Golden Links.

BRAVE GEORDIE. The Story of an English Boy.

BEATING THE RECORD. A Story of the Life and Times of George Stephenson.

* * * * *

Picture Stories for Young People

DEEDS OF DARING. STORIES OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE.

CONFLICT AND CONQUEST, AND OTHER STORIES BY SYDNEY WATSON.

PRETTY PICTURES FOR LITTLE PETS.

OUR DARLINGS STORY BOOK.

ALL PLAY. By ISMAY THORN.

ANIMAL LAND. STORIES AND ANECDOTES.

BIRDS AND BEASTS.

FULL OF FUN.

STARLIGHT STORIES.

PETS AND PLAYMATES.

FUN AND FROLIC.

* * * * *

REV. W. HAY AITKEN'S NEW VOLUME.

THE ROMANCE OF CHRISTIAN WORK AND EXPERIENCE.

By REV. W. HAY M. H. AITKEN, M.A.

WITH PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAIT OF AUTHOR.

Contents.

1.--Spiritual Facts Stranger than Fiction.

2.--Great Results from Small Causes.

3.--Strange Calls and Prompt Answers.

4.--Spontaneous Confession and Restitution.

5.--The Surrender of the Affections.

6.--The Bringing Down of the Mountains.

7.--Remarkable Conversions.

8.--A Great Salvation for Great Sinners.

9.--Deliverance for the Captives.

10.--Just In Time.

11.--The Last Call Unheeded.

12.--Standing up for Jesus.

13.--"Wisdom in the Scorn of Consequence."

14.--God's Messengers.

15.--The Bow Drawn at a Venture.

16.--"After Many Days."

17.--Noteworthy Answers to Prayer.

18.--Special Providences.

19.--The Last Enemy.

LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.